


Not Another Fic Titled: Hallelujah

by RoseGoldAmpersand



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Breathplay, Cock & Ball Torture, Cock Bondage, Cock Rings, Consensual Kink, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, Face Slapping, Idiots in Love, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Mild Blood, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Punching, Safe Sane and Consensual, Verbal Humiliation, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23376661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseGoldAmpersand/pseuds/RoseGoldAmpersand
Summary: Bucky indulges Clint's masochistic streak.Excerpt:Clint drew Barnes’ hand near to touch the cotton covering his abdominal muscles. Then lower, over the food-baby he was nursing, and lower still to settle on the rise of his prick. He squeezed Barnes’ hand down around him and felt another wave of warmth flood his system. “I can never remember if it's the third date or the ninth when you confess to your- y’know- that you have a thing for some real kinky shit.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 5
Kudos: 96





	Not Another Fic Titled: Hallelujah

**Author's Note:**

> Kink note: The pair are in an established, equal, relationship when they engage in consensual, pre-negotiated, pain- & humiliation-play. The pair have worked through any triggers that might have arisen and have found a way to play that they mutually enjoy.  
> Read the end note for a bullet-point list of the acts described. As always: be responsible, read the tags, and err on the side of caution if this might not be for you.  
> Enjoy!

For as long as he could remember, pain and humiliation made Clint hard enough to drive sword into stone. Not all pain; context mattered, especially now it seemed like every day came with a new bruise and another receipt for band-aids on Stark’s bill. He didn’t think of the _why’s_ or the _how’s_ , because - frankly - they didn’t fucking matter.

His ex-wife had pitied him, insofar worry adorned her brow like a black veil of fear throughout the latter part of their marriage, but it really wasn’t that deep. He could wallow in the mulch of memory lane, picking rotten grass from his molars, or he could say _fuck it, I’m a kinky bastard_ and chose to be happy with his lot. The latter was much more appealing.

Barnes seemed to understand that. The stubborn reclamation of horrors dealt, horrors experienced, was one of the many things they shared.

They - because in more ways than not they were a _they_ now - started sometime after Barnes had joined them at the New Avengers facility. It was longer than a few months, but just shy of half a year, when Barnes joined Clint at the weapons range in the middle of the night. To look at the hall, one would not know that it was 4am (the bright lights gave the sun a run for its money) until one acknowledged the deathly quiet pierced only by the slick _thwuck!_ of knives sailing to find a home at the opposing wall. They sat neatly in a long line like vertebrae. 

Clint did not startle when Barnes arrived, as Barnes was wont to find him in this very spot in the middle of the night. A strange habit, but Clint didn’t begrudge him for it. In fact, he hadn’t just grown accustomed to the other man’s presence, but savoured it. Barnes wasn’t Clint’s only best friend (a Hawkeye, a dog, and a redhead also claimed that title) but there was something undeniably, inescapably significant about him. He wanted Barnes to be a part of the rest of his life, which - ironically - wasn’t a feeling he had experienced before.

He sent his last knife soaring. The point nicked the handle of the uppermost knife to send it tumbling, which in turn knocked the others from their perch one by one. All of the knives clattered to the floor like stars, audibly twinkling only as they touched one another before falling silent on the wood.

“Steve wants me to join the team,” Barnes greeted, walking with Clint to collect the knives from the opposite side of the room. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. He looked well-rested, but it was always hard to tell with super-soldiers.

“Steve wants a lot of things,” Clint replied, recalling that very morning whereupon Captain America ate the last helping of eggs - even though Clint had already dibsed them first. It was unconstitutional at best and a betrayal that would sever their friendship and leave scars for years to come at worst. Before his coffee he had been sorely tempted to find a way to scratch something crude into the shield, but then he _had_ his coffee and it didn’t seem worth the effort of sneaking into Stark’s vibranium-scratching supplies. 

He accepted a knife from Barnes and looked into his eyes, serious for a moment. With his own purple-clad feet and Barnes’ thick boots, they were almost of a height. “What do you want?”

Barnes heaved a frustrated sigh and twirled the final knife irritably between his fingers, looking away from Clint’s gaze.

“There ain’t nothing I can do to be a hero,” he said, jaw clenched in a tense line that Clint (inappropriately) thought looked good enough to bite down on. It spoke of defeat, though, which Clint decided wasn’t a good look on Barnes. “I’m not made for that. Not now.”

Clint nodded, sucking his tongue against the back of his teeth as he considered Barnes’ words. Multiple times over the course of their growing companionship Barnes had referred to his arm and his body as though they were a destructive force, good for nothing else but bloodshed, and it simply wasn’t true.

“Your body is enhanced, or whatever, but that doesn’t make it inherently bad. That’s like sayin’ Cap-” Clint scrunched up his nose as he set the knife storage case down. “-Like saying the Spider-Guy is evil. He is superhuman, which would make him a great murderer if he were so inclined to the lifestyle, but he isn’t about that. His body isn’t a weapon, it ain’t a wall of defense, it’s just a body. He is a good kid, so he’s doing good things with it, and there isn’t anything stopping you from doing good things with the body you got. Futzin’ about it isn’t going to help you. Go work at a café, for all I care - honestly that would be fucking great - but don’t let what’s in your head stop you from doin’ what you want to do with your body. So- Yeah. Do what you want.”

“Careful, that was almost a speech,” Barnes said after a moment, eyebrows raised in appreciative surprise.

“Don’t let the bastards get you down,” Clint quipped and then (taking a wild moment to follow his own advice and avoid hypocrisy) he grabbed Barnes by the shoulders and kissed him. 

It was intentionally not a quick peck: his gloved hands gathered in brown locks and held Barnes passionately close. Clint braced himself as he appreciated the heat and the smell and the breadth of the other man’s body against his own, savouring the fulfilment of his long standing attraction. An unplanned sound of desire escaped his lips and Clint waited to be shoved to the floor.

Instead, Barnes dropped the final knife to land point-down into the wood at their feet. Then, he picked Clint up into his arms and took him to the adjacent gym’s showers. It was rather a thoughtful maneuver, considering that if the choice was available Clint would generally opt to not be caught with his naked limbs wrapped around Barnes, their dicks sliding together, and his head thrown back from the force of his climax. 

After that they were a _they_ and Barnes was an official active Avenger. 

_It_ started - because _it_ was an unnameable string of desire and empathy that drew them towards honest words spilt on a two-thousand-dollar rug - on a beautiful day in June.

It was somewhere between more-than-a-few-months and less-than-half-a-year since Barnes had joined the team in full and it had indeed been a beautiful day: clear blue skies, an Avenger’s run-in with the Taskmaster, and plenty of Sam’s homemade chicken. 

In the evening the residing Avengers had bid them goodnight. Clint had been assured of this fact as he was roused from a rather peculiar dream about pineapples.

“Do you like pineapple?” he asked Barnes aloud, voice rough, who was gathering a stray knife that had fallen under the coffee table during the meal. Thor, no doubt.

“Pineapple?” came a weary response and when Barnes emerged he propped his forearm on Clint’s thigh.

“Yeah, I had this weird dream,” Clint elaborated ineffectively.

Barnes scratched his chin with his thumb, “Pineapple’s alright,” he said noncommittally, then drew himself up with an absent twirl of the knife to straddle Clint’s lap. 

A strike of lust sliced across Clint’s chest as if Barnes had cut him in twain. The casual display of competence; the inherent threat of weapon and muscle; and the strangeness of Barnes - the shorter man of the pair - looming above him had Clint’s blood warming. 

He felt his face redden to match. From this distance Barnes must have heard the spike in his pulse. From this distance Barnes would almost certainly feel the stirring in Clint’s off-brand Captain America pyjama pants.

But Barnes stiffened, cold. “Oh, sorry,” he mumbled and carefully leaned with the knife in his grip to place it safely out of harm’s way on the aforementioned coffee table. Before he could get there, Clint snatched at the metal of his wrist and held him back.

“You’re safe,” he said. He meant not only _you are safe here,_ but: _you are safe to be around._ Clint took the knife from the other man to drop it back to the floor and he drew Barnes’ hand near to touch the cotton covering his abdominal muscles. Then lower, over the food-baby he was nursing, and lower still to settle on the rise of his prick. He squeezed Barnes’ hand down around him and felt another wave of warmth flood his system. “I can never remember if it's the third date or the ninth when you confess to your- y’know- that you have a thing for some real kinky shit.”

“We’ve been dating?” Barnes asked, somehow keeping his voice neutral despite the hesitant mirth twitching at his mouth, the asshole.

“Whatever, asshole,” Clint said with a roll of his eyes. “I was trying to say something there.”

“Were you? I wasn’t paying attention; I’ve got my hands full,” he smirked and gave Clint’s half-hard cock another squeeze through red-white-and-blue. “But please continue with your heartfelt confession,” he added, quite sincerely.

“I would love it,” he began lightly, running his hands up and down Bucky’s thighs either side of him. The warm haze of embarrassment smudged at his periphery and he tried not to squirm into Barnes' hand. “If you hurt me: slapped me, punched me, cut me, whatever. It’s even better if you make fun of me for getting off on it.” He chanced a glance up to Bucky’s expression before dropping his gaze again. “‘Coz I do, it’s just a thing I like. And if it isn’t a you-thing, no biggie. I know it’s intense but it’s not a deal breaker for me. It’s all chill.”

Barnes’ hand was still on his dick, which was starting to strain the fabric of his pyjamas now, and so there was no denying that Clint was getting off on the idea. Even the embarrassment of confessing had him feeling naked and hot under the other man’s unavoidable gaze. 

Barnes’ thumb moved absently over the bulge, rigid and unyielding metal made gentle as he slipped into his thoughts. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said after a moment, voice soft at the edges and unwavering at the core. His eyes stern were as he looked into Clint’s. “I’ve done enough hurtin’.”

“Okay,” Clint accepted and propped himself up on his elbows. “Okay, but hear me out on one thing? An alternative perspective, if you will?”

Barnes huffed and nodded, his expression softening with humour once more. He quirked a brow, “Yeah?”

“Don’t think of it like you would be hurting me: it would hurt, yeah, and it would be you doing it, but- The goal isn’t to give me pain, it’s to give me boners. Pain is just... A channel through which you can get me off. And you’re so hot you could just hold me down and I’d bust,” Clint explained with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “We could start small. Boundaries, first-aid kits, the works.”

“... Small could be nice,” Barnes replied after a pause, licking his lower lip. He grew distant as he pictured Clint writhing and coming undone because of him - because of his enhanced body: good not just for saving the world, but for pleasing his lover, too. It was a prospect that heated him from the inside out. “Something like this?” He carefully cradled Clint’s wrists in his flesh hand and brought them to the arm of the couch behind his head. He pressed his weight - more than he usually would be inclined - onto Clint’s wrists and squeezed Clint’s balls securely with the metal palm of his other hand. 

The reaction was instantaneous and Clint shoved his hips up in an effort to drive his erection against Barnes’ metal forearm. 

“Ohhhh, okay. Fuck. Fuck, yes; that’s good. Maybe harder? Whatever you are alright with,” Clint breathed in a rush, his body suddenly strung tight and fighting the natural response to curl in to protect itself and the addictive urge to seek more. Pain and lust and embarrassment rolled into one and it all felt so good, so impossible, so delicate, that couldn’t help but hump into Barnes’ steely grip.

“You really do get off on this, huh?” Barnes said, as if astonished that he had missed such an obvious sexual-trigger that Clint possessed. He made a mental note to sieve through his memories of their time together for evidence he had missed at a later date. For now, Barnes shifted so he could grip Clint fractionally tighter and press his own growing interest into the man’s hip.

Clint’s heart thudded in elated surprise at the ever-so-slight condescension in Barnes’ tone - or perhaps that was wishful thinking. _That’s right, I get off on this. Tell me I’m depraved, tell me I’m bad._ He tilted his head back into the couch with an uncontrollable shudder, reigning in some of his sanity before he was reduced to begging. 

“Oh my god what have I done,” he moaned through a laugh. 

Clint’s cheeks were flushed so red that Barnes could hardly even count his freckles before he took Clint’s mouth with his own. 

(Nobody mentioned the stain on the rug the next day, but if they had, Clint’s finger would have pointed in Steve’s direction. The egg-thieving sonofabitch.)

*

A year later, it was June again.

The day had been uneventful and filled with normalcy, then there was a suggestion, followed by a discussion and excited preparation. Evening was when the fun began.

Lucky was with Kate tracking down some dodgy arms dealers in Portland, so there was no need to be concerned about interruptions other than the usual Avenging variety. Clint’s gear was lined up and accessible if the need arose, while Bucky wore his full armour: lacking in the majority of his weapons, which were arranged beside Hawkeye’s. At a rough estimation, they could be ready and out their apartment door in under five minutes - depending how far they had fallen into each other's company.

It had been weeks since they had done anything as thoroughly as this. 

Every time they went to bed together Clint's kinks were inevitably casually involved (a hair pull here, a slap there, a remark shortly after) because Bucky couldn't resist causing the man to melt against him and he would use everything in his arsenal to succeed to that end. But it wasn't the same as dedicating an entire evening to fulfilling Clint's deeper desires in the way they intended to tonight.

Bucky crept silently among the shadows of their Bed-Stuy apartment and admired the tableau of the kitchen. Earlier he had swept the rooms for security and allowed only a single window to remain uncovered - partially because Clint still hadn’t fixed the drapes, but also because the window was inaccessible to anything other than the moonlight which currently poured into the kitchen. It painted a sliver of the beige tiles opal from it's glow. The beam of light made Clint’s leg hair shine a pale gold and bleached the pre-existing dark purple smudges at his waist that had blossomed when he was caught midair by Iron Man a few days prior _after_ jumping from the back of a sentient Statue of Liberty. 

Ankles tied to the back legs of the one kitchen chair they owned, Clint’s spread form created a pretty picture indeed. His thighs were just shy of straining, the corded muscles thick from the awkward angle. The position thrust Clint’s crotch forward - vulnerable, presented - with nowhere to hide. His stomach was soft and relaxed, but his chest was stretched just as tight as his lower half. Clint’s pits were pulled over the uppermost part of the chair and arms were drawn taut behind, his biceps an exaggerated bulge in contrast to their normal relaxed state. 

Bucky had tied his wrists to the back legs of the chair, next to his ankles, and had taken the time to admire the athletic length of his lover as he pulled soft rope over wood. Frequently he forgot how tall Clint really was, but tied up like this with barely a sign of discomfort across his body reminded Bucky of how much space he had to play with. 

A streak of pale yellow moonlight brightly painted Clint from head to toe, like a drape of cloth licking a path up the full length of his body. Bucky felt his breath catch in his throat, desire already warm in his lungs, and Clint tilted his head toward the noise.

“I can hear you, Brooklyn,” he said with some amusement. He rolled his head back to catch sight of Bucky and smiled warmly at him for a long moment before settling down into a comfortable position again. “Don’t stand there all night. You know I could finish like this if you watched me long enough.”

“Hm,” Bucky grunted in acknowledgement and didn’t miss the way Clint’s cock took an interest in the noise. Already Clint was turned on from his bound position and the brief interlude while Bucky had done his final checks.

Bucky stepped further into the kitchen, the bulk of his body casting long opaque shadows across Clint’s flesh. “That ain’t in the plan,” replied and he busied himself with stepping up to the line of toys he had laid out on the table aside Clint. He carefully selected a rubber cock ring from the queue. “Don’t forget this is for you. Quittin’ now won’t hurt me, doll.”

It was a lie and they both knew it, but the half-role Bucky was to play tonight required a little aloofness. After a year of experimentation they had found a common ground; Bucky understood and used every one of Clint’s weaknesses to his advantage - even if that meant demeaning him, hurting him - and in the end Clint was a total mess of carnal satisfaction for Bucky to care for. He took pride in what they did together and in what his body could do for his lover. Finally not used to murder in cold blood, nor used to protect the universe, but to give pleasure and joy in a multitude of ways for no other reason than because his partner wanted it and he wanted to be the one to give it.

“I’ll be good,” Clint replied with a wink. Despite being half cast in shadow his eyes sparkled with anticipation.

Bucky stepped between Clint’s legs, a dark imposing figure that served to heighten the vulnerability of Clint’s nude flesh compared to the bulk of the super-soldier.

He gripped Clint’s jaw with his flesh hand softly, petting the rough stubble with his thumb, before taking Clint’s mouth with his own. He kissed Clint deeply. His admiration and desire flooded the kiss as Clint’s tongue pushed to meet him. 

Bucky indulged for a few moments, then smiled and stood from his bent position before striking Clint with an open palm across the face. 

The sting barely registered on Bucky’s flesh before the sensation was gone.

“Jesus,” Clint breathed, cheek turning pink. His expression darkened with lust and his prick sprung to attention, pointing heavenward in eagerness. He seamlessly relaxed back into his stretched position; offering himself up with a lick to his upper lip. Ready to begin.

“You seem to’ve forgotten the position you are in, pal,” Bucky murmured quietly with a small smile. He crouched between Clint’s akimbo knees and looked up the long torso of his lover. He ran both hands up the soft skin of his inner thighs and noted the way they strained further apart under his touch. He reached out to touch the bruise that marred Clint's side, his fingers light and teasing over the sensitive flesh. 

Satisfied that he had Clint's heartfelt attention, Bucky began to work the ring down the length of Clint’s shaft. He handled him lightly and with false disdain, before snapping the rubber in place against his delicate skin. A tremor shook Clint's legs and his sharp inhalation was loud in the empty silence of their kitchen.

“You know there is something I want from you. When you give it to me, we’ll finish this as we said. When that is, is up to you,” he continued, pinching the swollen end of Clint’s fattening cock between his thumb and forefinger. He pressed firmly, until the flushed tip of his head turned bloodless-white and a string of pre-come dripped from his hole. 

Clint’s hips squirmed and he hissed in pain, arching up to relieve the ache, before undulating into the unyielding metal grip; seeking more. 

“Sure, but I’m goin’ to make you work for it,” he warned breathily, lashes fluttering as Bucky rubbed roughly at his frenulum. Clean buffered edges of the metallic plates dug into his swelling flesh and Clint tipped his face up into the moonlight with a moan, indulging in the burn of the flame Bucky was igniting in him. "Apparently not for long, though."

“I don’t think we need this yet,” Bucky agreed with a pointed tug to Clint's member. It bounced as he stood to fetch a roll of wide tape from the table.

Bucky flicked a small knife out of his holster and cut a strip as long as his thigh from the roll. He lined the strip up to the underside of Clint’s dick, directly in the middle of his shaft, and used the horizontal length of the tape to strap the man’s penis to his lower stomach. Another spurt of clear fluid dribbled from the tip as it was pinned, but this time the pre-come settled and glistened in a puddle on Clint’s abdomen. 

Prick effectively ignored (shunned, made defunct), Bucky took the small knife, angled it parallel to the floor, and gently lifted one of Clint’s balls. He weighed it pensively against the shine of the knife’s flat, before dragging the pointed tip towards himself across the sensitive underside, rolling the sac over the edge with an audible scrape.

“F-fuck,” Clint moaned and arched, trying to spread his legs a little further. He offered himself wholeheartedly, recklessly. His face flushed to match the pink of his slapped cheek and quickly transitioned to a deeper hue of embarrassment. By the look in his fevered expression Bucky knew where his thoughts went. “I want-”

“I could,” Bucky interrupted softly, hoping that the fact he knew where Clint's mind had taken him would embarrass him further. He met Clint’s gaze, his own eyes dark and intense, before dropping his sight back to where he now cupped the man’s balls in one hand. They were plump and tan and throbbing against his palm. He tugged gently, playfully, before closing his fist around them in a crushing grip, holding them away from Clint’s body. Clint gasped at the sudden overwhelming pressure, his body tightening in his bonds, and he blinked away tears as his chest heaved. 

When Bucky spoke his voice was just as calm as before, “Look how wild they make you. It would be easy for me to castrate you, right here in our filthy kitchen. And _you_ would thank me for it, wouldn't you?”

Clint’s erection jerked under its binding, leaking enough fluid to drip down the side of his stomach and over the bruises that Bucky hadn’t given him. With a gushing exhalation he laughed somewhat hysterically and nodded.

“I want you to,” he admitted to the ceiling, the high storm of arousal clouding his vision and his sanity. He felt as though he were aflame as he confessed, "Really fucking badly."

Bucky stared at his lover's lopsided grin and smothered his own automatic smile at the sight. He ignored the happy jolt in his chest and refocused on the task at hand. 

He placed the sharp edge of the knife to the juncture where Clint's sac became staff, as though he were an old movie villain threatening a damsel’s pristine throat. The trembling in Clint’s thighs turned violent with anticipation and barely there self-control. Slowly, Bucky drew a hair thin cut across the base of Clint’s restrained prick, using the full length of the blade: tang to point. His eyes focused with extreme precision as he worked, despite wanting nothing more than to watch Clint's expression grow twisted with pleasure.

"That's it, ahh ah- Buck," Clint encouraged through gritted teeth. 

He fought to obey the sensible reasoning to stay still, lest his thrashing cause worse harm than Bucky intended, but the greedy part of Clint ached for the risk. Some days he wanted Bucky to be careless, to hurt him in ways that were permanent, but his lover's super-human focus and control was just as arousing. This was no accident; he was the sole focus of one of the most dangerous men alive. He was being judged and hurt and shamed by the man he held in highest esteem. He had never been more exposed or vulnerable and it served to deepen the pull of his urgent need.

When it was done, a small line of shining red beads appeared at the part in his skin like jewellery, and Bucky erased them with an antiseptic wipe before finally releasing Clint’s now maroon coloured sac.

“Yes! Yes,” Clint cried, sweat beading at his brow as he laughed. He had almost forgotten that his nuts were locked in a death grip, so concentrated on the knife was he, but now they burned with the violent rush of blood; an intoxicating contrast to the delicate pain of the cut to his cock. With each throb of his prick the cut stung and adrenaline coursed through his system, making him giddy and delirious. He wanted more; he wanted his lover to split him in half, consider the pieces, and find him wanting. He wanted Bucky to scar him, so he could never look at or touch his prick again without remembering the draw. 

It wouldn't be long before he gave Bucky what he wanted, but he was stubborn enough to refuse to give in until the last second of his restraint. Bucky watched him squirm with hunger in his eyes, his own body on fire under his dark tactical gear.

“You’re twisted,” Bucky said, voice gravelly, because he knew it was what Clint wanted to hear. He couldn't help but be drawn closer and he leaned over Clint until their lips barely touched. He spoke into his lover’s mouth with hunger, “You hide it well from the world, but you’re depraved, Clint. I wonder what they would think of you if they knew.”

"God," Clint moaned weakly, barely making it past the first syllable before Bucky was on him with a kiss. He was rough, consuming, but he didn’t let himself linger; just long enough for Clint to begin to kiss back before he was drawing away.

He slapped Clint again with enough force to make the chair squeak a fraction across the tiles. This time his hand stung red. 

He breathed heavily and stepped back to observe, re-centering himself before drawing in again.

“Yes, Buck- C’mon,” Clint's voice was gruff and he looked crazed when Bucky wrapped his hand around his throat, lips parting around a choked moan. His hips humped the air, yearning for _something_ \- be it pleasure or pain.

“You’re lucky I don’t care how filthy you are,” he murmured into Clint’s cheek. It was harder to put voice to this variant of lie. Bucky was the one who felt lucky to have Clint in his life. He was the one lucky enough to be trusted with such an amazing man at his most vulnerable, most honest. Thus, he spoke the words quietly against Clint's skin, because those words weren't for anybody but Clint, not even himself. He felt Clint nod enthusiastically against him and leaned closer to dissolve himself into the half-broken moan exhaled from his lover's lips. His own erection throbbed in his pants at the sound but he pushed the need aside. They still had plans not yet touched.

Bucky stole another kiss from Clint's mouth, forcing his teeth into the supple reddened flesh of his lower lip and the pain caused Clint to strain upwards, his hips demanding pressure that was continued to be denied. Bucky's eyes roamed the delectable length of him, obsessed with every aspect of his enjoyment. 

He tightened the hand he had around Clint’s throat securely before hauling his arm back and sinking his fist into his abdomen.

Bucky shocked the breath from Clint's lungs, but didn't use enough force to injure his stomach, and leaned back to watch the man struggle to inhale. He briefly slackened the grip around his throat for one messy breath, then punched Clint’s gut again. With each strained gasp Clint's lashes fluttered and his prick pulsed. He was a mess of sweat and pre-come, back arched and crotch thrusting against nothing but tape. Bucky wiped the drool from the corner of Clint's mouth with the rough fabric of his sleeve.

He never liked to hurt Clint for very long and greedily cut each act short just so he could watch Clint beg for more. The man probably would prefer it if Bucky elongated the ways he hurt him (hit him until he broke skin or choked him until he passed out) but there was no pleasure lost by the short bursts of pain building up, wave after wave, over the course of their playtime. 

Bucky released Clint's throat after only a few moments, his cheeks far from purpled, and as he stood he shoved the other man's head roughly downwards.

While Clint was curled in on himself, coughing and catching his breath, Bucky picked up his next item from the table. Before Clint could track his movement, he repositioned himself behind the chair and fisted his hand roughly in Clint’s limp hair. It had grown long enough to curl at the ends and fall into his eyes. He held Clint's head up by the dirty blond strands at such an angle that his breath came out in shallow bursts, throat arched and vulnerable. 

“Let’s show the world know what you are, hm?”

Stood behind him like this, Clint couldn’t see it when Bucky drew scissors across the space between his fist and Clint's scalp, but his aids picked up the rough _snick_ of hair on hair as it was cut. He felt the tell-tale tickle across his shoulders and the slack increasing as the locks Bucky used to hold him up were sheared away.

Clint gasped in shock and he fought in his bonds to hide his shame while the pressure in his prick built, threatening to overwhelm him. 

People would ask. Perhaps not tomorrow, but there would be a time when someone would ask about his cut hair and he would have to look them in the eye and lie and try not to get an erection from the memory of how it came to be. The humiliating thought itself was enough to make him panic as his balls drew up tightly against the ring keeping him from coming and he whimpered, afraid that he couldn’t cling on to his composure.

“None of that,” Bucky chided, blowing away the scattering of loose hair that had fallen to Clint’s collarbone. He pet Clint's cheek for comfort before he washed his hands at the sink. As he ran the tap he watched his lover struggle to regain a level head. Without expectation he asked, "Is it time?"

"No, fuck- you fuck," Clint cursed, his frustration between wanting to come and his determination to last increasing with every moment. His chest muscles were taut and overtired, the chair dug deeply under his shoulders, and he was creeping toward over-stimulation. He felt higher than his body, transcendent, and grounded by Bucky all in the same breath. He felt greater and smaller than ever, cherished and broken, and a fire was eating him up inside out. It was only a matter of time before it burned clear through.

Bucky flicked cool water at him playfully and Clint flinched as if he had been slapped again. He squatted between Clint's thighs once more and cupped his overheated length with ice cold hands from the frigid water. Immediately Clint's features relaxed, mouth hanging as a furrow wedged itself between his brows. 

Bucky leaned in close to dig his teeth into a particularly tempting muscle of Clint's thigh. Sometimes Bucky caught sight of Clint's legs while lounging around their apartment in boxers that rode too high - or out on the field after a spectacular jump - and he would want to sink to his knees and worship him until he was mad with it. He indulged himself now, lips tracing the more sensitive bare skin of Clint's inner thigh, and his prick throbbed in time with the jerk of Clint's hips.

"Look at you, huh? Pathetic man," he said into the skin, another lie that fumbled across his tongue but made Clint sob in the best of ways. He flicked his gaze up to watch Clint's expression grow weak and glassy, before sinking his teeth in deeper to hide the flush across his own cheeks. 

He hummed around the mouthful, sucking a bruise there which would fade by next week but no sooner. Bucky shuffled closer and took another bite of Clint's leg into his mouth while he began to roughly jerk away the tape that had been pinning his cock down. It had been long enough. He wanted to touch.

The slick that had been steadily leaking from Clint's cock glistened as he sprung free, obscene strands connected his tip to his stomach before dripping to the floor. This time when Bucky spoke it was all truth, "You're a wreck, doll."

“Buck,” Clint whined, close to begging but not quite there. His shoddily cut hair was twisted into all directions, cut blunt in some parts and still wavy everywhere else, making him look feral. His brow was wet with perspiration and his eyes with unshed tears of ecstasy and frustration. His jaw worked between open mouthed moans and gritting his teeth together and the tendons were strung tight behind the reddened skin of his throat. 

Tape removed, Bucky began to sharply tug at the band wrapped around Clint's base, his prick bouncing wildly with each pull until it finally rolled free. He wrapped his still icy metal hand around the turgid shaft firmly to stave off any accidents and watched the sensual rhythmic shuddering of Clint's body as he teetered on the edge of his climax and clung to the last ounce of his control. 

His chest swelled and Bucky reached up with his free hand to feel the warmth of his nipples, his ribs, and further to the bumps of his stomach muscles working to sustain his outstretched position. Clint's marked thighs were almost off the seat as he had thrust his hips out so far, bodily twisting and toes slipping over the floor in an effort to gain leverage. His whole form was begging for brutal attention and Bucky was weak to give it to him. 

He looked desperate and beautiful - all because of Bucky.

"You know I want something from you," Bucky reminded and dipped his head to press an open mouthed kiss to Clint's cock. He cupped Clint's balls in one hand once more before bringing the other down to slap them. He slapped his thigh next, then backhanded his prick. 

"Bucky, ah- babe," Clint whined and bit his lower lip to keep himself from vocalising anything further. That's how Bucky knew he was ready, near breaking point, so he repeated his trio of slaps, darkening the skin to pink surrounding the love bites he had made. Clint's balls drew up in his hand, throbbing as his cock pulsed rigid and stiff over and over between every hit. He was squirming in his bonds, fighting at the ropes, desperate to pull Bucky closer.

"You're almost there," Bucky encouraged, his voice rough with lust as he finished his frenzy of smacks to Clint's crotch.

He next turned to focus his attention solely on Clint's neglected member. 

He wrapped his metal fist loosely around the straining flesh and jerked him, as if the movement of the air around him alone would be enough to send him over. He used no lube and let the vibranium drag raw over the parts of Clint's dick not slick with come.

He carefully observed as Clint screwed up his eyes and gasped, then Bucky released his grip, punctuating the movement with a strike to his swollen balls. He waited for the moment Clint began to relax then he stroked him again, only twice before pulling back, and Clint's moaning grew wild.

"I hate you, oh god, I need- Buck, I need-!" 

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky said, attempting to sound disinterested but his words were instead breathy and possessive. "I hear ya."

He continued to edge Clint, touching him for fractions of seconds at a time before he was withdrawing his hand away again whenever it seemed like he was getting too close. Over and over he brought Clint to the edge and stopped before meeting it.

Clint was red from head to toe, sweat dripped from his pits and sat like dew at his temple, and Bucky was beginning to grow impressed at how long he was holding on for. 

The next time he stroked him from root to tip, he flicked Clint's cock head - right where he knew Clint loved to be licked during a drawn-out, torturous suck - and tsk'd. "If only you lasted this long on a normal day, hm pal?"

It was almost as if Bucky could see the final straw of hurt and shame placed on top of the unstable pile Clint had built up inside him: Clint's eyes screwed shut and he released a broken cry to the ceiling before sucking in a violent breath.

"Please! Please now, please, fuck I need you, please-" he all but yelled, thrashing in his bonds as his last ounce of pride and token of resolve crumbled and broke. Tears welled in his eyes and he breathed raggedly through gasps and sobs. “Touch me!”

"Needy thing," Bucky praised, his hands twitching with anticipation. He bit his lip and gripped Clint's thigh with one hand to steady himself. The other took a firm hold of his prick and Bucky only needed to roughly jerk his hand over him once more before Clint was howling and over the precipice. 

As it happened, Bucky - with greater self-discipline than he realised he possessed - removed his hand and took a measured step back, outside of Clint's personal space. His lover's prick pulsed madly and his urgent moans turned to tears and cries of disappointment as he tumbled over the edge, coming untouched and on residual pain alone.

His come shot upwards before splattering to the ground, once, twice, before dribbling down the heated underside of Clint's length in copious lethargic waves. It stood ruddy, proud, and weeping to the heavens from his ruined orgasm.

Bucky gave him one last slap to the balls, hard enough to send Clint sobbing helplessly and spilling another gush of come over himself. 

He looked down at Clint and took in the sinful mess of him with appreciative eyes until the urge to touch himself grew too strong. Quickly, he stepped around the chair and untied Clint's wrists and ankles with a jerk of his knife. 

He all but collapsed to his knees as soon as he was free, arms reaching out to Bucky's crotch desperately. His damp eyes were black and face slack with desire. 

"Please," he begged and opened his mouth, grappling at Bucky’s covered erection with fumbled movements.

"Fuck," Bucky cursed, pulling himself free from his gear. He barely felt the touch of air to his cock before Clint had him engulfed. He sucked him greedily, with the enthusiasm of a dying man. It was messy and unskilled and noisy, but Clint was so violently thirsty for it he had Bucky weak at the knees.

He gripped the wayward shards of Clint's shorn hair and thrust his hips into the wet heat, riding the underside of his dick across Clint's slack tongue. “Clint-” he groaned brokenly, biting his bottom lip to hold in the sounds.

He looked down and saw Clint’s eyes fixed on his, full of dazed adoration, and came with a surprised gasp. He had to fling out a hand to catch himself on the table as an explosion of pleasure rocked through him.

Clint drank him down messily and eagerly, kissing all over his exposed prick and rubbing his cheek in worship to the length when he had finished. He pulled back and wrapped a shaking hand around Bucky's cock, jerking him haphazardly as his muscles acclimatised to their regained freedom. 

"Another?" he asked when Bucky's cock didn't soften. 

Bucky nodded with a grunt, helpless to the blissed out expression on Clint's face. He rubbed the tip of his dick against Clint's stubble as he was stroked, hypnotised by the erotic and intimate sight of his sex touching his lover's cheek. He thrust into the channel Clint made with his fist and watched his prick leak over his jaw, limbs barely holding himself upright as he rutted to his peak against his partner’s face. 

Clint moaned his encouragement and turned his head to take Bucky's tip into his mouth once more, stroking and sucking with gratification. It wasn't long before Bucky was consumed with his second climax, moaning low and weak in his throat as he emptied himself over Clint's outstretched tongue.

He swallowed and Bucky rubbed his tip over the reddened flesh of Clint's lower lip one last time, before falling to join Clint on the floor.

Bucky gripped Clint with hands to cheeks and kissed him deeply, both panting as if they had gone up against an enraged Hulk. He poured all of his love and affection into the kiss, clinging to the other man and rubbing life back into his sore limbs and grazed wrists. 

Once their breathing had evened, he eased them both to settle and rest their combined weight against the oven door with a grunt. Bucky tucked his dick back into his pants, then caught the corner of the towel he had left on the table with his fingertips. He set about wiping Clint's body of sweat and semen, massaging the skin carefully and checking over any damage. 

Clint sighed against him and relaxed his body into the half embrace, winding his long legs between Bucky’s companionably. He let Bucky do what he needed to do and looked absently out to the night sky. The light of the moon was reduced to just an ambient glow, the satellite having moved past their little kitchen window.

"I need to fix those drapes," Clint murmured as Bucky busied himself with brushing the lingering strands of cut hair from his shoulders.

"Nah," Bucky replied, his voice a warm rumble through his chest. He pressed his lips to the warmth of Clint's cheek and hid a smile. "They ain't doin' any harm not being there."

"Whatever," Clint snorted and tucked his nose into the coarse fabric that protected Bucky's neck. He breathed deeply, at peace, satisfied beyond words.

"Enjoyed yourself?" Bucky mused softly as he worked. The evidence of Clint's enjoyment was all over the floor, after all, but he left a pause heavy enough that hinted Clint should confirm verbally.

"Every bit," Clint nodded, a goofy grin melting his features. "I'm going to wake you up with the best rimjob ever in the morning, dude, you'll see."

At this Bucky snorted and bumped his head to Clint's. Love swelled in his chest and he didn’t bother to hide the affection in his voice, "I'll finish your hair, we will shower, and then you can talk about tomorrow."

"Is that right?" Clint with a breathless laugh. "Well, you're the boss, Brooklyn."

When it was time, he willingly wrapped his arms around the broader man's shoulders to be carried to their bathroom, where he was pampered and praised in full contrast to the night's previous events. 

All things considered, he later mused to himself as Bucky buzzed his hair even and tidy, being doted on by one of the most dangerous men in the world wasn't half bad.

  
~ * ~

Inspired by Cohen's: 

_Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you,_

_She tied you to her kitchen chair,_

_she broke your throne, and she cut your hair,_

_and from your lips she drew the hallelujah_

*

**Author's Note:**

> Pain-play/Humiliation-play content:  
> -Clint is slapped across the face, on his thighs, and genitals (Clint’s genitals are generally treated with a rough hand)  
> -Clint receives a small cut from a knife (enough to draw blood) and castration/genital mutilation is mentioned as a part of erotic dirty-talk  
> -Clint is punched in the stomach, winding him but not seriously hurting him, and they engage in some breathplay  
> -Clint’s hair is cut  
> -Bucky refers to Clint like he thinks he is depraved/beneath him (they both know this is an act)  
> -Clint is edged and his orgasm ruined (delayed, but not denied orgasm)  
> Thank you! Positive vibes welcome in the comments<3


End file.
